


Mhysa (Fire from the Tongues of Liars)

by madqueenofhellskitchen



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Game of Thrones Fusion, Alternate Universe - Skyrim Fusion, Awkward Romance, BAMF Bilbo, Because Thorin speaks about two words of Westron, Bilbo Has Issues, Bungo has the Gold Madness, But it is not necessary to watch the show, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Coming of Age, Cultural Differences, Desolation of Smaug, Dragon Language, Dragonborn (Elder Scrolls), Dragons, Epic Battles, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Forced Marriage, Game of Thrones References, Game of Thrones references for all seasons, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Khal Thorin, Khaleesi Bilbo, M/M, Mild Gore, Minor Character Death, Necromancy, Romance, Sequels are Coming, Sexual Content, Slaves, Theft of Dragons, Thorin Has Issues, War, Young Bilbo Baggins
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-09
Updated: 2014-06-16
Packaged: 2018-02-04 01:23:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1761721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madqueenofhellskitchen/pseuds/madqueenofhellskitchen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Originally from Tumblr. He has been sold, beaten, tortured; he has been taken from his home and thrust into the wild.<br/>But Bilbo Baggins is strong. He is fire, he is ice--passionate and calculating. He will learn to love again. He will learn to survive again. He will move from mourning to loving and strong once more.<br/>And he will become the Mother--the Mhysa--that will save the Dwarven people that saved him.<br/>And the fires will never burn him or his children and loved ones ever again.<br/>So warn the Dragon. So warn the White Beast and his army. Warn the Slave-traders and enemies of the Ereborians.<br/>The Mhysa has Risen. And he will burn them all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sparks

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thorinthesassmaster](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=thorinthesassmaster).



> I was given the following prompt on Tumblr a long while back, and I'm finally moving said story over here!  
>  _Ohh! Your fics are gorgeous so I hope you don't mind me dropping a request? :) How about a Game of Thrones like AU where Bilbo is Daenerys and Thorin is Drogo and just their story but maybe not with the same ending because DEATH IS SAD OKAY just Bilbo angst because he's just prone to it but then fluff because we all need a bit of fluff in our lives xD anywhoo, thank you for your consideration! :)_
> 
>  
> 
> So I honestly love Game of Thrones--Dany is one of my favorite characters--and when given the chance to make Bilbo follow in her footsteps, I had to jump on it with no regret.
> 
> Story is planned for around six parts. I'll be posting the first three chapters up quickly, since they are already ready. I'll be posting updates first on tumblr (you can find me at ragingqueenunderthemountain) and then moving them over to here.
> 
> Kudos, comments, and reading and love are all appreciated! And I hope you enjoy the journey of this story as much as I am.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He is Sold.
> 
> He is Married. 
> 
> And he is Loved. 
> 
> And yes, surprisingly in the eyes of Bilbo Baggins, it all occurs in that order.

\-----

_"I will take what is mine with fire and blood."_

_\- Daenerys Targaryen_

\------

Bilbo Baggins certainly knows he’s not in the Shire anymore.

In fact, well, he knows where he is.

He’s in the ever-stretching Savannah grass of Middle Earth, grasses growing for miles and miles; the trees are far away and few in number here. The earth smells different, the rocks are harder to traverse, and the water is darker; the birds do not sing as nicely here, and instead of foxes and rabbits, horses upon horses are around, underneath the ever-bending blue sky.

And the firm hand on his shoulder reminds him of not being here by choice.

The firm hand of his father reminds him how his mother’s death rocked their world; how Bungo, who had nothing to his name, and instead Belladonna had everything and all things, had no money to his name now, how the smial Belladonna had lived in was taken by her remaining Took family, casting the Bagginses out into the world.

And whereas, well, whereas many hobbits would just pluck their bootstraps and settle into the earth and rebuild their world anew, Bungo would not. Madness in his heart at Belladonna’s illness plus the loss of his home and work left him cold, aching, and greedy; and his young son was the perfect target and pawn to help.

On the cusp of maturity, Bilbo isn’t ready for what his father is forcing him to do in desperation; marriage for money, he claims, will be the key to solving his problems. Of course, he doesn’t say that one of them is that that Bilbo will no longer be a burden on him, but it’s understood anyway.

And Bilbo inwardly sighs when he remembers how his father used to be…Warm, caring. Before madness.

But he doesn’t have long to pout, because a few of the horses are coming closer—ponies, really, because he is amongst the dwarrow, now. The nomadic race that has been roaming the Earth for decades upon decades, rumored to be still rich in gold (rumored amongst the naive, at least) but without a home. And it is them that Bungo managed to contact through unsavory means, promising a nubile, beautiful mate for the king of the dwarrows, while wanting gold in return.

And here they are now, just as Bungo gently pushes his son forward after whispering,

"Remember. Make a good impression. Chin up, smiles on."

But it’s hard for Bilbo to smile when it is amongst strangers and fearsome looking creatures. There are bald dwarrow with tattoos on their heads; some with bears down to the ground, others round as a ball. He knows not a lick of Khuzdul and cannot understand what they are whispering or why the look at him the way they do—with hungry curiosity and amusement.

But Bilbo has no time to speak, because the head rider approaches, and he is bare from the waist up; hard muscles greet Bilbo’s hazel eyes, and the man has hair everywhere—a ponytail stretches down his back to his rear, ebony hair with slits of gray speckled in between. Blue eyes pierce his body as the dwarf leaves his horse to stand before Bilbo, while the other dwarrow bow, along with his father and their guide, Bofur, a dwarf who has mastered the common Westron tongue in order to aid them.

"My King, Thorin II Oakenshield," The hat-wearing dwarf speaks, and Bilbo, wanting to be polite, has the desire to bow—but his knees will not obey; he is being examined, he knows, studied by the being before him, who is just a bit taller, but certainly wider and stronger. His hands could crush Bilbo’s windpipe if the urge ever struck, and his silence is deafening, even though the hobbit knows he should not have expected otherwise.

Thorin tilts his head and gently lifts a hand, fingers touching Bilbo’s chin and lifting his face so eyes meet across the span of inches; he tries not to look away, boy, does he try, but it’s hard when his heart-beat is faster than the wings of a bat, and his breath is trying to remain steady and all but failing.

Bungo asks Bofur, ‘What on earth is he doing?’ and Bofur just smiles and replies with, “Inspecting, Sir. But in a good way.”

For it is not that Thorin is displeased or even inappropriately touching; his eyes are roaming all over Bilbo and the hobbit can feel the dwarf’s thumb caressing his skin carefully, almost as if he wishes to soothe him and it is the most affection Bilbo has felt in months, and he fears he may start crying.

But Thorin halts his movement, and instead gives Bilbo a smile, retreating back to his pony, hopping on, nodding and riding farther out and away—back to a central location wherein he will be waiting.

"Is he not pleased?" Bungo huffs, and Bofur just laughs,

"Oh no. He’s _ecstatic._ ”

But Bilbo has little time to even take in what just happened, before Bofur and his father are escorting him after Thorin, and helping to prepare him for the wedding that will take place that night. Bungo, unfortunately for his son, will be present, for he has not received his money yet, and Bilbo whispers this to Bofur during a quiet moment of the dwarf helping him dress in fine blue clothes.

"And he won’t leave until he gets it…I almost hope my husband can just give it to him and tell him to go."

"I can’t say for sure when my King— _our_ king—will give him the money, my boy. But oh, oh, don’t fuss over that!” Bofur grins as he weaves silver strands of metal into Bibo’s hair, “You’re getting married!”

"To a complete and utter stranger!" Bilbo counters with, "I do not know this man, nor does he speak my language, and he…he…"

And after months of traveling from the Shire to here, with his father’s angry, mad voice in his ears, Bilbo finally breaks down with some tears, sitting and hugging his knees while Bofur exclaims, “Oh!” with a frown and bends down with him.

"Hey, laddie, hey…S’gonna be okay. Thorin’s a good man! A gentle soul! I-I know you’re…uh…really outta your element, but…but…But I’m here! Yeah! See? I speak the same language, and—Oh, don’t cry! If Thorin finds out, he’ll tear this whole place down." Bofur tries a laugh even though he has a hunch it’s not a lie; the way Thorin looked at the hobbit earlier was a sign of something…and he could guess what even if the other does not see it.

"I just do not know what to do…"

"Oh, lad," Bofur says, "You’ll figure it out. Just go with all your instincts!"

And he tries to; he’s in blue robes that make his skin feel as if they are amongst water, silver shoes on his feet; fabric trails behind him, and he almost feels womanly but he’s not one to question dwarf customs. Bofur takes his hand and leads him to the wooden platform the dwarrow built, towards his new King, who in turn rises to meet him.

Thorin is once again smiling, Bilbo looking away out of nerves and fear, but he still hears Thorin mutter a word he cannot understand. Whatever it is, it makes Bofur laugh and the hobbit glances over at his companion,

"He said ‘beautiful’. See? What did I tell you, he likes you."

Bilbo just blushes and lets Thorin escort him to the platform and cushions, giving him his space, but not letting go of his hand.

And the ceremony begins; it’s very informal, beginning with a dwarf priest coming forth, ordering them to speak words; Bilbo only repeats what he can, and when he messes up, there’s a few laughs from the crowd, but Thorin merely squeezes his hand and he tries again with Bofur’s assistance and gets everything right eventually.

A feast follows, and he eats what he can; he sees dwarrow are ravenous with their food, and Thorin often offers some from his own plate, and Bilbo would almost say there was worry on the dwarf’s face that his new husband was not eating much, but that’s probably being too optimistic. Nevertheless, the hobbit takes some food and eats, sighing and trying to enjoy the cooked meat and herbs, so different from the Shire’s mince pies and tarts.

What comes next surprises him—a presenting of gifts. Dwarrow from the group bring forth clothes, small jewels, and little trinkets and they are not for the couple—they are for Bilbo alone, he realizes, as his husband gently—gentle, gentle touch—guides him to stand and accept with a grin and a laugh. Bilbo can see in the distance how Bungo is reigning in snarls, jealousy on his face as Bilbo caresses a beautiful chain with sapphires presented to him by Thorin’s sister.

It is Thorin's sister-sons that bring the most interesting gift, though—a box, filled with dragon eggs. Three, to be exact. A green, a black, and a gold one and Bilbo has only heard them in the stuff of legends, and even Thorin seems surprised, as he barks out questions at his nephews regarding their gift.

"He’s just as surprised as you are, my Consort," Bofur states, while Bilbo caresses the eggs, "Seems they found them in a market."

"…They are beautiful." Bilbo whispers, and he gives his new nephews a kiss on each cheek. He knows they will never hatch, but they must have cost a small fortune and he supposes that the dwarrow do care, in their own way. They wish for Thorin to be successful, to be happy, and if they believe Bilbo will do that, then so be it.

It is his husband, though, that brings the sweetest gift; Thorin stands towards the end of the celebration, taking his husband’s hand and guiding him down into the crowd; there is ale on the ground and a bit of blood, for many of the dwarrow were sparring for sport—nothing deadly, clearly, Thorin would not stand for that, but for amusement, and Bilbo dances around the spillage, almost clinging to Thorin who seems not in the least upset by the closeness.

And he’s certainly happy when Bilbo gasps when a beautiful white pony comes into view.

Thorin speaks Khuzdul and Bilbo murmurs, “Uh…” Until Bofur hurries over to say,

"It’s name is Shadowfax in your tongue. And he’s just your size."

Bilbo is in awe because the creature is like a diamond come to life, and he reaches out to touch its nose and it whinnies and Bilbo—for the first time in months—finds himself giggling and Thorin is sighing with relief next to him…

And then hoisting him up onto the horse while Bilbo squeaks in surprise, worrying that oh, oh, I can’t ride, nope, I never learned, I can’t, I’m too small, I’m-

But Thorin rubs his back for a moment, handing him the reins and Bilbo carefully walks the horse a few steps, and oh, oh, for a few moments, he forgets he’s here, that he’s not here of his own volition, because he’s actually happy…The Dwarrow are kind creatures in their nomadic life, in their tents and bedrolls and fire pits, with their gutteral language that is deep, throaty, and mysteriously alluring. And Thorin is smiling at him and for a moment, he forgets that they are married and it is to be their wedding night…

He forgets everything for a few moments just to be happy.

Soon enough, though, it ends, with the dwarrow dispersing to their own tents, all of them knowing exactly what is going to happen in the largest tent tonight; so does Bungo, but whereas any other parent would want to protect the virtue of their child, or at least give them the best advice, Bungo does neither, and instead flees to his own bed with a frown on his face.

Bilbo, however, is escorted by Thorin into the warm leathers; the dwarf seats him amongst the pillows and blankets, and Bilbo, of course, because he is nervous, starts to babble.

As Thorin undresses.

"O-Oh, well, you see, this is quite a lovely tent, lovely indeed. OH! I love this pillow-" He does take a minute to hug said pillow with golden stitching, "Quite, quite lovely, and really, so warm. I love the fire pit, and—uh."

Well.

"Well…That’s…quite lovely too." Bilbo whispers as Thorin stands in front of him, naked the day as he was born, his hair still bound in the ponytail, grinning as he flops down next to his husband…whose neck begins being kissed and attacked with little nips, the first causing Bilbo to squeak in surprise and turn beet red, Thorin merely laughing and saying one word,

"Ghivashel…"

"I-I don’t know what that is—OH!" His ears are next and Thorin is humming, and Bilbo…is actually enjoying it. He won’t lie, Thorin’s attractive in some sense; he’s no hobbit but Bilbo won’t lie: he feels safe around Thorin. He’s seen his face become scowl-like upon questioning his nephews, and boy, it can be intimidating. So it isn’t just his muscles that are like shields for him, but his deep voice and serious face, too.

And speaking of muscles, Bilbo, before he can comprehend that he’s enjoying Thorin’s lips on his skin, is hefted into the air and on his husband’s lap, where, yep, he can feel how content Thorin is, he doesn’t need to see the smile or hear the hum to know that.

But, of course, Thorin doesn’t really know how soft hobbits are—he’s probably never seen one before now, if the strength he is gripping Bilbo goes by. And thought it contrasts with the kiss to his forehead and cheeks, the gentle softness that makes him squirm, it does not contrast with being tossed into the pillows, and Bilbo’s patience wears thin, then.

"Woah, woah!" He huffs, as Thorin moves to squeeze him again, and the dwarf’s eyebrows furrow in confusion, "Gentle, please, gentle. I’m not all rock and stone, you big oaf."

He pokes at Thorin’s abs and huffs, and Thorin’s head tilt just shows how difficult this may actually turn out to be; can he even understand him? Doesn’t he get that Bilbo is-

"…No?"

Oh, so he knows one word.

And Bilbo knows he’s getting a way out, too; Thorin thinks he’s rejecting him, or is too nervous for this at the moment, and well, okay, he’s nervous, but Thorin…actually feels good. And my god, that hair. That hair is like silk and Bilbo could probably play with it all day long, since he can’t seem to get his hands out of Thorin’s scalp.

"…Yes. BUT!" He shouts just as Thorin leans in with a grin, "…Gentle. Slow."

"…S…Slow?"

"Oh, see? You can learn the language. ‘No’ and ‘Slow’ that’s a great start. Now let’s see if you can learn my name-"

"…Bil…bo."

That brings him up short—Thorin was actually paying attention…to when they announced his name.

"…Yes?"

"Yes. Bilbo."

Thorin smiles and says it again, “Bilbo…Ghivashel.”

"Give a shell? Dear lord, is that a euphemism for something?" Bilbo’s expecting it to mean he’s going to give the king some form of…something or other, and he’s not sure if he really wants to know.

When Bofur begins tutoring him in a few days, and he asks about the word, he’ll blush redder than the sands of the desert and hold the word close to his heart.

But that is not this night, clearly. Instead, Bilbo babbles for another moment, until Thorin learns his husband just talks a lot and sometimes needs coaxing to be silent.

"And really, I should probably learn how to talk to you, I mean, I’m staying here, and, well, it’d only be the polite thing to do-"

"…Bilbo."

"And—Ah." Thorin takes his chin in hand again, "…Thorin?"

That brings a smile forth. “Ghivashel.”

"…Ghi…va…shel…Yes?"

"Yes." Thorin happily replies, and Bilbo’s about to speak again, but Thorin is wiser now, and knows that if he starts talking now, he’ll probably never shut up—so he kisses him and falls back into the pillows with him.

And Bilbo, for all his nerves, is taken care of tenderly; his beautiful blue garments are cast aside with ease, and Thorin’s lips are everywhere on his skin, and his voice is high pitched, calling out the King on top of him’s name and holding on tightly. Sometimes he has to remind Thorin to be gentle, to not squeeze so hard, to go slow, but he does—and Thorin, almost, it would seem, looks on him with admiration at his words and orders.

And Bilbo thinks, when the sun rises, that this may be okay—Thorin’s arms are around him and his face is in Bilbo’s curls, murmuring Khuzdul with mirth in his voice and Bilbo thinks that this…could be okay. Waking up like this.

And he thinks it’ll be okay when the days soon start passing in a pleasant way; Thorin usually is busy with orders to his advisers and hunters, but Bofur and the others keep him company. The former teaches him Khuzdul that first morning and doesn’t stop, and the Iglamesh sign-language comes as well; the latter actually comes easier for Bilbo because he’s always been deft with his hands, and each evening at dinner, he presses fingers into Thorin’s palm as words he directs towards him, and makes hand motions in the air that make his husband smile—or pull him close with a kiss, depending on what he is saying.

And the others teach him other handier skills; Bombur helps him learn to cook traditional dwarf meals, while Fili and Kili give him small weapons to dance around in; the best is a small sword they call some long-garbled name in Khuzdul, but Bofur merely says it is called “Sting” in Westron. He’ll never have to fight, for it is Thorin’s job to protect him, but it would be impressive if he learned too, and just in case there was an emergency. Oin teaches him about herbs that are healing medication, in case the King would ever become ill on accident, or become injured. Balin gives him history books and Ori teaches him how to write Khzudul and keeps him company.

And it only takes a few weeks for Bilbo to realize that these dwarrow have been more of a family to him than his own kin have ever been.

But he’s still reminded of the past—because Bungo is following the camp as it marches on through the wilderness, still demanding his money; and Bilbo worries over this on the evenings when he braids Thorin’s hair, the foreign words still stilted and not the best, but Thorin can gather what his husband is feeling just by the emotions on Bilbo’s expressive face.

And he says “No.” after a moment, booping Bilbo’s nose with mirth, a sign that he is saying he will protect his husband at whatever the cost.

And two nights later, he does—for Bungo has had enough, and in the large gathering center, he finally loses his cool, grabbing Bilbo’s wrist as he began dancing with his new friends and family in front of the community fire pit; Bungo’s screaming that he’s become a native, and that he was promised gold upon gold for his worthless hide—it’s the madness, Bilbo reminds himself, it’s not him, it’s not him, _it’s not him_ —and he better get it, or he’ll take his little whoreish body to another tribe.

There’s tension in the air and many of the dwarrow—Dwalin, Ori, Bofur, and others, start to rise up, and Bilbo’s expecting bloodshed because Bungo has not only been screaming, he's been gripping Bilbo's wrist in a painful way that has made him cry out and almost get on bended knee, while spittle hit his face.

Until Thorin barks an order and marches over, snarling at Bungo,

"Gold?"

"Aye, you worthless savage. Gold."

And then…Thorin smiles and whispers words to Dwalin, who begins gathering golden coins from all with the most devilish grin on his face; Bilbo doesn’t notice that Bofur’s eyes have widen exponentially and in a terrifying way; Thorin is kissing his hands and whispering words of comfort, and he is too absorbed in that to care.

Finally, the gold is placed in a pot, melting, and Bungo, in his madness and stupidity, does not realize what is about to happen.

"Gold. Gold for madman." Thorin snarls and Bungo can only mutter out ‘wha-" before the molted metal is poured on his head and he begins screaming in agony as it drips down his face.

And the old Bilbo would have looked away as his father was tortured and killed with molten gold upon his head like the crown he’s truly always wanted, but this Bilbo does not. He’s suffered too much at the hands of Bungo; his screaming, his slaps, his dark ideas in order to get them money, and it is a pleasure to watch the monster that his father became die away.

Because now the real Bungo is at peace.

And Thorin, of course, comes over to him, dumping the pot aside and wrapping his arms around his husband’s waist, asking if he is well.

And Bilbo says he is.

And for many months after, he is. It is quiet with the dwarrow; he learns so much, gains so much, loves so much. Because he comes to realize that yes, he loves his dwarf King. He is warm, inviting, strong and mighty, sensual and nearly-divine.

Bilbo is grateful for the one thing Bungo did right—giving him to a caring man who would give him anything. And Thorin feels just the same, and Bilbo wonders if he fell in love with him on sight, because Thorin’s smile and eyes say so, and he’s figuring they cannot and would not lie.

And sure, they argue once in a while, and Bilbo can give it to him in Khuzdul now, but they always come together in peace and love.

And there is peace and love for a time—until the fall winds blow in.

Because in the dead of night, there’s a scream, and Bilbo awakens to the smell of smoke, as does Thorin.

Their tent is on fire.

All the tens are on fire.

They’re being raided by orcs.

Thorin doesn’t waste any time, grabbing his husband with a scream of his name, his sword Orcrist coming with them as they burst through the tent, Bilbo tucked into Thorin’s arms as their belongings burn, and as they see the chaos around them.

Dwarf is fighting orc, even the females, while the children are being sheltered away by some; Dwalin is cleaving skin, Balin is spinning his axes and staff, and each is fighting while Bilbo clings to Thorin, who is talented enough to fight one-handed. They aren’t sure what happened, how the watch let this slide without warning, but it is too late now.

The orcs, their leader in the front, eventually laugh and flee, for their numbers are dwindling and Azog accomplished what he wanted—pure chaos and loss. For a great deal of dwarrow are dead, Thorin has been a bit injured by the wargs, and the tents have turned to ash.

But all Bilbo can concentrate on is healing Thorin’s wounds once the sun rises; he’ll be well, Oin tells him. A few warg bites won’t kill the King, but Bilbo still cries a bit and Thorin brushes his tears away.

"…I-I’m sorry, I should have…I should have done something, I-"

"No." Thorin replies and Bilbo just laughs and hugs his husband amongst the ruins.

There’s nothing left—barely anything left, really, other than a few of the horses—Shadowfax included, Yavanna blessedly saved him—and the weapons and food on their backs. But that doesn’t stop Bilbo from going back to the tent he and Thorin has shared for months, to touch the ash…

…Until he touches something else.

Something scaly.

A little ‘mewl’ echoes out from the dirt, and he brushes away the ash, screaming Thorin’s name as he finds the three dragon eggs he has had all this time cracked open on the ground, the wooden crate having been burned away.

And three, small dragons stare up at him—one black as night with some red scales underneath; a green and bronze beauty next to him, and a cream and gold third. All smile up at him and purr and begin crawling up Bilbo’s arms just as Thorin appears and whispers the name of his god, Aule…

And the mighty King gets on his knees in front of his husband in a worthy bow.

"…Dragons…" Bofur whispers in awe, and before Bilbo can say any sort of words at all, the rest of the dwarrow are bowing to him, and Bilbo feels as if he’s about to faint.

"Dragons…" He repeats to himself as the black dragon licks his cheek, claiming them as their mother—-father?—-and he realizes that he’s gained even more family just then. Family that has risen from the ashes of defeat and sorrow and pain.

"Don’t you know what this means?" Bofur asks, and Bilbo shakes his head, the other deciding to continue,

"We can go home."

And he reminds Bilbo of how the giant dragon Smaug had taken their home of Erebor; and now they have three of their own.

"Thanks to you—because Thorin has married you."

"…Because the boys found the eggs for my wedding…" Bilbo helpfully supplies and Bofur nods, turning to his King to explain his thinking and Thorin smiles and nods, his mind going to the exact same place.

And Bilbo has just realized he could truly help his husband get home, now.

They all could go home.

But it will take time, he reminds them and says; the dragons must grow, we must get weapons, we must get ready to fight…

But they will, Bilbo knows it.

And he will name the dragons Bungolon, Bellavius, and Tookdagar in honor of his long-gone hobbit family, who are with him in spirit. And they will eat cooked meat and travel with the dwarrow as they begin to recuperate.

And they will follow their father--mother?--to the ends of the Earth, if need be.

Just as the dwarrow will, too.

For Bilbo will become stronger and stronger, wiser and wiser, with the coming months—and Smaug will have much to fear indeed.

For now, though, the hobbit basks in the glow of his husband being alive, and the presence of their new ‘children’.

And he will get rid of the labels of ‘halfling’, ‘whore’ and ‘strange’ and instead take on the labels of ‘Ghivashel’ and ‘Consort’ and ‘Parent’.

And he will learn that fire may burn everything away—but everything grows again with a little bit of love.


	2. Burns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An enemy in the woods makes itself known and Bilbo learns that fire is a great ally--but the greatest is the language of his children.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not much to say about this chapter! It was requested once again by a prompt on Tumblr--which was awesome--and includes a big chunk of the plot and helps move the story along. 
> 
> Warnings for mild fire violence and sappy Bagginshield moments. And yes, the Dragon Language is finally spoken of, so thanks go out to Bethesda Games for that inspiration. 
> 
> Enjoy! And thank you for the previous comments and kudos and views :)

\-----

_"It seems to me that a queen who trusts no one is as foolish as a queen who trusts everyone."_

_\- Daenerys Targaryen_

\-----

It’s been six months since the dragons hatched, and Bilbo can’t help but wonder at how fast they’re growing.

The size of household cats now, they make it a daily duty to perch on his shoulder and grill the meat he offers them from his small fingers. Bungolon is the largest of his siblings, his black and red scales shining in the bright sunlight as the caravan of Ereborian dwarrow moves East, back towards the Mountain. It will take many more months, and much more growing, but they have time.

They are patient.

They can wait.

But Bilbo cannot wait until his children grow even more—sort of. He enjoys how small and baby-like they are now. Bellavius, the only female, is the daintiest of the three with her green scales and nestles often into Bilbo’s golden brown curls, while Tookdagar is of middle build, but is the one who enjoys his wings the most, and was the first to use them, too.

Bilbo wants to watch them grow, become more powerful, become the next era of dragons that will aid his family for all time; but he enjoys the feeling of holding them in his hands at night while Thorin combs his hair under the night sky or underneath the tents, depending on whether they are camping for a few days or not.

And he whispers to his husband that these will be the only children he can give them; hobbit males cannot hold real children after all.

But Thorin’s known that all along, and each night he kisses Bilbo and whispers that he is the Mother of Dragons, the Thief of his Heart, and he will bring success to his people—their people.

"Why do you call me their Mother, though?" Bilbo whispers while his children sleep in the little pen Bifur built them, his naked body settled against Thorin’s chest. On the road, there is little time or privacy for intimacy, but at least once a week, Thorin cannot hold in his desire any longer, and takes his husband with pure, powerful love-making.

And like each time, they whisper in Khuzdul to one another endearments—or questions, in this case; and Bilbo has come to learn the language well. He is still no master, and many things still need to be explained, but he has learned well enough.

Well enough to understand Thorin’s next words: “You love them like a mother. Fierce. Loyal. Powerful. Nurse them with meat and warmth.”

"…I suppose that makes sense." Bilbo sighs as the other strokes his hair, "But that makes you Father."

Thorin laughs into the night and it reminds Bilbo of how lucky he feels every day when he wakes up and Thorin can sometimes barely let him go; how his dragons greet him with cries each morning; how Bofur and Bombur and Ori always smile and hug him close and encourage him as their King’s Consort.

But of course, his happiness never lasts.

He’s a Baggins—it’s sort of their curse.

The herd of dwarrow has come to a wooden area to pass through and there’s a debate to go through it or not; rumors have spread that the elven races have spread to this area, and there is no love lost between them and the dwarrow. Of course, Thorin is adamant on exploring it just a bit—perhaps the rumors are false. Going around the forest will take at least an extra two weeks of travel, if not more, so he must go in a bit and see.

And Thorin arranges to take twelve others with him in a sort of company, the best and brightest of his tribe, he says, and that is all well and good, yes, Bilbo approves-

Until Thorin orders him to stay behind, and that certainly will _not_ do.

Khuzdul shouting erupts from the center of the caravan, the hundreds of other dwarrow cringing because they’ve heard the arguments between the couple before; little petty things that never mean much, each one ending with Thorin trying to offer his Consort flowers, or Bilbo gently prodding his King’s back with a foot, tears in his eyes and words of sadness on his lips.

But this time, oh, this time it’s different. This time Bilbo is demanding he come along with his husband; he can protect himself, he says, and his children will be on alert in case of any sort of danger. But Thorin is shouting at him just to listen to him, that he _will_ obey this command to stay behind for it is his own safety, for the good of his Consort.

Why must you be such a stubborn brat? Why must you be so commanding? Accusations are traded back and forth and Bilbo screams that enough is enough, jabbing his finger into Thorin’s chest, saying he will come, and that is final.

Thorin, in his anger, shouts that fine, but he will not promise his safety and protection if he wants to so foolishly risk his life and not listen to someone who knows better.

And those are the words that hurt the most, but Bilbo stays strong, not shedding tears until he walks away and until his back is to Thorin.

And that night, while they prepare to leave come the next morning, there are no flowers or simple touches; there are glances, furtive glances, as if both want to say something, but each man has their own stupid pride and each manages to get in the way.

Come sunrise, they set out for the woods; Mirkwood, Bofur tells him in whispers as they move through; they plan to only find one direct route through, find the exit, and completely turn around for the rest of the dwarrow; it should take only a few days.

But the stillness of the woods is nerve-wracking; and the silence between King and Consort does not help anyone of the Company, and it certainly does not help Bofur, who, whenever he tries to comfort his friend, gets a glare of hot jealousy from his King.

It’s a bit of a tricky spot to be in, really.

The woods are dark, and wet, and Bilbo’s children are uneasy as they walk through, Bilbo upon Shadowfax at the back of the crew, Bofur and Ori nearby, the dragons on the hobbit's shoulders, mewling and trying to comfort their Mother, feeling the sadness in his heart in theirs, but to no avail.

And all is quiet for some time, until Bellavius perks her head up, letting out a little screech.

"…What is it, girl?" Bilbo strokes her head and she hisses, staring into the darkness, seeing the unseen—

And then she screams, wings unfurling while her brothers join in, and she turns on Bilbo, pushing at him with her claws, shocking him enough to tumble off Shadowfax as the horse whinnies and the few dwarrow around him turn in shock, shouting his name in confusion.

Bellavius follows his tumbling body, egging him on, moving him by forcing Bilbo to scramble as he shouts her name in confusion, and before the hobbit can comprehend anything, the dragon’s pushed him into a hidden hole in the ground, screeching in misery-

Just as the trees open up and the dwarrow on the surface are surrounded by shouting elves. 

Bilbo cannot see anything, only hear the shouts, the clashing of a few pieces of weaponry and oh, oh no, he gets it now…

Bellavius saw them, heard them—and protected him. 

Just like any mother would.

"…Thorin-" Of course, his husband is on the forefront of his mind, as are his children, and he makes to scramble up the hole until Bungolon’s face appears, wailing, ordering him to stay hidden-

Just as a hand reaches out and grabs the dragon's neck, pulling him out of Bilbo’s sight.

"…No…"

Then he hears the orders: take them to the King, he will know what to do with them. And feet are marching away and though Bilbo cannot hear them, Bofur questions,

"Where’s Bilbo?"

And Thorin, after getting an elbow in the back, turns and looks around; he had lost sight of his husband during the entire scuffle and it had completely escaped his mind to keep an eye on him.

"…N-No…"

His face drops as he’s pulled along by the elves; his husband, his Consort…And he remembers the words he shouted in anger and frustration, that he would not protect Bilbo, and he whimpers underneath his breath.

Because his hobbit is missing—the dragons have been placed in a cage, Shadowfax has been held down and is being escorted along with them, but there is no Bilbo.

He’s gone.

And it’s all his fault.

Perhaps he’s run to safety, but something in his heart tells him that isn’t true. That this forest is dangerous and even if he’s lost, he’ll be harmed for sure—and that will be his fault too.

Of course, none of these thoughts are actually true; because Bilbo pokes his head out of the hole after a few minutes and sucks in a breath.

His children have been taken.

His husband has been taken.

His _family_ has been taken.

And oh, that certainly will not do.

He’s silent as he moves—all hobbits are. And he knows where to follow them, he can feel it in his heart; the trees are easy to jump through and move, and he can hear the shouts of his Company in the distance as he treads carefully. He’s as silent as a mouse, quicker than a rabbit, because no one will take his family from him.

Not again.

The woods eventually open up and he is graced with a vision of the Elven Kingdom; so the rumors were true—the elves have made a home here, and they have trespassed right through their territory. Great. Lovely. Remind Bilbo to slap Thorin over the head for that one.

He’s crouching down by the river as the group of elves and dwarrow march through the front door, and he is unnoticed by all—save for his dragons.

There’s a small cry from Tookdagar who looks right at him; but a soft finger to his lips hushes the child, and he means to move through the basement up into the Kingdom—he hopes. He’s really not sure what he’s doing, but Bilbo knows he has to try.

It takes some doing, but he finds the water-logged entrance after a great deal of walking and pushes his way through; he’s soaked as he meanders through the elven sewers up into the cellars, but it works; and as he hides behind the wine stacks, he hears that the King has taken the dwarrows to the prisons, has gone to interrogate Thorin, and the dragons are chained up in the chamber.

He can only imagine that the interrogation of Thorin doesn’t go well, and he’s right; Thranduil had ordered the dwarf brought to the throne room, and he started on him immediately,

"I thought you smarter than this, Oakenshield. Truly, going through the forests? Your people have avoided these woods for years…unless you now need to go through them?"

Thorin’s stony silence is answer enough, and Thranduil merely smiles,

"Yes…I figured as much. Especially since I’ve seen and taken the dragons."

That gets Thorin’s blood boiling; if he cannot protect his One, he will at least make sure his children are safe until he can find Bilbo again ( _"That makes you Father"_ his conscience painfully reminds him), and he shouts Khuzdul curses at Thranduil, who merely smiles.

"Please. I don’t want to kill them. I want to keep them. But I also know they most certainly can’t be yours. Why in the name of the Valar would you have dragons?”

"Children." Thorin spits out in Westron and Thranduil just laughs,

"Oh? Then where is the Mother?"

Thorin goes silent then, and Thranduil understands immediately.

"Pity. I hope the spiders have not gotten to him by now."

And Thorin loses his cool then, moving to tackle the elf to the ground but guards stop him.

"Fine then, be violent if you wish. I could use some prisoners and I could use some leverage against your people. Take him to the dungeon. The dragons are staying with me."

Of course, Bilbo spent the time during the interrogation profitably, meandering through the basement, finding his way to the prisons. And he overhears good news—Thranduil, in all his pompous glory, has decided to host a victory feast for capturing the wild savage Thorin Oakenshield; he will use him as a bribe to his people to obtain gems from the rest of the caravan, and then he will let them go. The white gems he has wanted will be returned and Thorin will be humiliated—a win-win both ways.

But for all his cunning, Thranduil does not realize how excited to celebrate some of his guard truly are. For, while hiding in the shadows, Bilbo takes his chance. Asleep after some food and mead, it takes just a few nimble fingers for Bilbo to grab the keys off sleeping guards who have drunkenly fallen into a stupor, and he is able to not only enter the prison itself, but unlock the cells.

And he knows which one he is going to first.

Thorin is on the ground, back against the cell's far wall, face in his knees, and Bilbo wants nothing more than to hug him close and beg his forgiveness. But instead, he whispers,

"…G-Ghivashel."

Thorin’s face rises slowly, and it’s obvious he’s been crying and he gasps at the sight of the other, hurrying over to the cell door.

"Bilbo!" He sounds breathless and oh, Bilbo can see the sorrow in his eyes; sees the pain and pity and he can only wonder what Thorin has been thinking about—he can fathom a few guesses and all of them are about him being dead and harsh words and needing to beg forgiveness.

Thorin is mumbling Khuzdul rapidly and Bilbo hushes him softly, opening the gate with the key and he has no time to speak, before Thorin is encompassing him in his arms.

"I thought I lost you…" Thorin whispers in Khuzdul and Bilbo snuggles and holds him close, whispering shush, you big oaf, of course I’m okay, I got away, it’s going to be okay, it’s-

But Thorin takes his face and kisses him quickly and hiccups once, before saying Westron words that rock Bilbo’s world once again,

"I…I…love you…"

He’s said it in Khuzdul before, many, many times, but this is the first time he’s spoken the sentiment in the common tongue, in Bilbo’s native Westron tongue, and he must have been secretly practicing the phrase for weeks, Bilbo realizes, before it all went bad, and Bilbo can’t help the few tears that come forth, rubbing at his eyes embarrassingly.

“Men lananubukhs menu…” He stutters out—still having trouble with that second word—but Thorin grins, until looking away and whispering,

"Still?"

And oh, oh, he thinks Bilbo’s hands let go of his heart; that he gave Thorin up because of this and Bilbo reaches out and touches his cheek, rubbing that beard and teasing the braid nearby,

"Still."

"…Always?"

And Bilbo swallows the lump in his throat at his husband’s Westron abilities growing and whispers,

"Always."

They stand in silence for a moment before Bilbo shakes his head; now, he tells his husband, you must go and get the others out, and I must get the dragons.

Thranduil has them, Thorin tells the shorter male, but that just makes Bilbo go even steelier and more sure of himself as he presses the key-ring into Thorin’s hands with a kiss.

"Go. I’ll see you soon."

"B-Bilbo-"

"Go."

And he makes a break for it and runs just as Thorin makes to break for the other cells and free the Company; and Bilbo knows he’s counting down the minutes because they have to get out of here; time is running out and they may be able to break through the sewers to escape but they’ll have to hurry.

He’s running through the rooms of Mirkwood’s palace, whispering to himself, ‘give me a sign’ because he needs to be able to feel his children, his dragons, he can sense they are close and he searches room after room, sticking to the shadows.

Eventually, he finds it.

There they are, chained to a small, raised table and Bilbo runs over to them immediately; a few squeaks of appreciation come forth and he almost wants to cry again, and he almost does.

Until he’s hit over the head and everything goes black.

He’s awake a few minutes later, maybe ten, fifteen, and he’s being held up in chains from the ceiling, his dragon children screeching out of worry behind him, and there’s a smug elf King in front of him, smirking.

"So…you are the Mother? My, my, Thorin did well, I see. Cute, sneaky and smart. Just what a King needs."

Bilbo finds it appropriate that the first words he lets out are Khuzdul swears at Thranduil, but he hides his surprise with a laugh,

"Relax. I’m not going to touch you. But I think I’ll keep you, too. They need you, obviously. They will not eat from the hands of my guards, they will not listen to me…You are obviously the key to their survival."

"I cannot command them to do anything except basic survival needs. I know no battle commands!" Bilbo spits at him, "And they are just children! And even if I could tell them to do any sort of things, why would I work for you?"

"Because, I could easily threaten the lives of your beloved dwarrow family, dear Mother. And would you want that? Truly?"

And something…well.

Something inside Bilbo snaps, then.

He can see how if he is kept here with his dragons how this will end—in blood, with Thorin’s kin destroyed, with his children turning on those that love him, and Bilbo’s anger grows.

And there’s a fire in his eyes as he stares Thranduil down, and he hears words whispered in his ears, in his mind; words of a language he’s never recognized whispered to him in dreams and it is pure instinct that he snarls at Thranduil now,

"Would you like me to prove it to you? That I cannot control them, but that they control themselves and whom they listen to and love?"

"Sure." Thranduil is amused—but he won’t be for long.

For Bilbo closes his eyes, his children staring at him, waiting, as he screams,

"YOL TOOR SHUL."

It is the language of old—and Thranduil, immortal, must know what the words mean.

He must know that Bilbo, learned unconsciously, has spoken the language of Dragons that his Love has taught him.

And even if he does not recognize it immediately, he does when the three dragons blow fire upon him with a scream; and he bellows as he is caught in tongues of flame, his face and hair burning painfully as he yells in agony, tumbling out of the chamber just as Thorin—ever impatient, ever wanting to make sure Bilbo is safe—enters, jumping out of the way of the fire just in time.

"NOW YOU KNOW A MOTHER’S LOVE, YOU WRETCHED CREATURE." Bilbo screams as his children breath more fire through the doorway, searing Thranduil even more as he flees, and a few of the guards that have come running; Thorin is pushed up against the wall, watching his Beloved become powerful, become mighty, and he has never felt so strongly in love before.

"YOU WILL NEVER HURT MY FAMILY AGAIN." Bilbo screams as the flames move past his hanging chains, melting the metal enough for him to fall; but the flames do not burn his skin, but instead warm it; and even Thorin unconsciously notices that the heat of the room fails to bother him, too.

For fire cannot harm a dragon—or those it loves.

The children eventually halt with a wave of Bilbo’s hands, and he wretches the chains off his wrist with anger and frustration, while Thorin moves to release the dragons from their own chains.

"Let’s go." Bilbo murmurs, grabbing his King’s hands while the dragons stretch their wings as they run back to the cellars; Thranduil’s bellow is heard in the distance, but so is his pain; he is immobile on the floor of his throne room, healers rushing to him, and though some guards are coming towards them, they halt.

Because they are right to fear the dragons.

The sewers welcome them all, and they dive in and hurry through the river, and the forest welcomes them once more; Shadowfax had been tied up outside, and Nori has grabbed him, and Bilbo’s hopping on his horse quickly, Thorin behind him, the dragons in the air screaming and destroying the trees of Mirkwood behind them.

And they run once again, run the miles they walked before, Thorin’s hands tight on his waist and he leans back into the warmth with delight.

Because they all know he’s grown even more, now. He’s the Mother, the Consort, the other King and Thranduil will spread the message to the world now on this day: no one must ever threaten the Ereborian dwarrow again, or they shall face the wrath of the dragon children of Bilbo Baggins.

And during a night after escaping and moving the caravan around Mirkwood to follow a river and be safer, Thorin makes love to him again, whispering in Westron, their bodies joined forever as he calls Bilbo his savior, his King, his Queen, his everything…

"Protect you forever."

"Protect you always." Bilbo replies in Khuzdul, kissing his husband and rubbing his chest, his energy well spent, his cries heard far and wide.

And they whisper that they love each other, and Bilbo wouldn’t have it any other way; it’s always been easy to forgive Thorin and it always will be.

And he finds something else is easy, too: learning the language of Dragons.

Once Balin learned what happened, he searched his tomes and found what he needed—the language was written down eons ago, and now it is time for Bilbo to learn to help command his dragons.

"You will never tame them," Balin says, "But command them? Yes. Stop their actions if needed? Yes. But they will always be wild—but from the way they act now, they will always love you."

So the next time Azog sends a herd of orcs after them, and they are the size of small dogs, all Bilbo has to do is shout “KRII VAAZ” in order to get his children to attack—to kill, to tear—and defend the lives of those they love.

And the message spreads quickly—beware. Beware, Azog. Beware, Smaug.

For the dwarrow of Erebor will return home soon enough.

And they will destroy any enemies that get in their way with the power of a Mother’s love.


	3. Flares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo learns that lies and deceit are not a hindrance to a Queen, but are actually a wonderful weapon instead.
> 
> And betrayal rears its ugly head against them all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here is chapter 3! Thank you so much for all the love for the past two chapters. :) It's great to see and hear all the love. 
> 
> Also, thanks to the lovely thorinthesassmaster for creating a Fanmix for the story! You can find her fanmix here on her Tumblr: http://thorinthesassmaster.tumblr.com/post/88207569745/mhysa-a-bagginshield-fanmix-for-my. Warning, though, that the cover gives a small spoiler for the chapter :) 
> 
> Thanks again, all! A few warnings though: this chapter focuses on slavery and forced labor, so some warnings for the skeeviness of that. There's also a reference of sexual slave trafficking, but it is one line only.

\-----

_"Valar Morghulis."_

_"Yes. All men must die, but we are not men."_

_\- Missandei and Daenerys Targaryen_

\-----

They have found solace in the eastern forest and plains for months now; not one disturbance, not one inkling of trouble. It’s given time for Thorin’s tribe to recover from all the issues they had upon the burning of their things and the mess with Thranduil’s kingdom. Sure, they had been unable to walk through Mirkwood then, and it had taken extra weeks to travel all the way around the circumference of the dying wood, but it had been worth it. There were no more troubles, then, and instead there were celebrations, after the story of what Bilbo had been able to do with his dragon kin reached the ears of all dwarrow accompanying them. There had been dances amongst the fire, then, food aplenty, and Bilbo was herald once more as their savior.

Of course, that solace was one day broken, but not in a terribly awful way—winter was coming, the first few flakes coming forth down from the mountains, and the dragons were growing even more; on the late fall day in question, they were asleep in their pens outside Bilbo and Thorin’s tent, but their heads perked up when they heard running footsteps: Bifur, having been on watch, came bearing news and had barely stopped on time to grab Bofur and drag him into their King and Consort’s tent.

"…Slaves?" Bilbo questioned him after an explanation had been given; he was seated behind Thorin, tending to his wild locks with deft hands, and though it seemed the King was lounging and not interested due to his lax body language, his eyes bore into the forms of the Ur brothers with a seething, piqued fire.

“Aye. Laketown, it seems, has become a haven for slaves.” Bofur nodded, and then turned to his cousin, speaking in Khuzdul, “How many did you see?”

Bifur gave a shrug, and spoke in a guttural tone that Bilbo was finally able to understand for the most part, “Guessing about two-thousand. Human and Dwarrow.”

“At _least_ that number.” Bofur supplied to his brother’s words, “I mean, I’d heard the rumors that slaves had been taken in that town months ago, so I’m going to say it’s a lot more.”

“Hadn’t that been a fishing town?” Bilbo questioned, halting his fingers and burying them in his husband’s locks, while the latter hummed contemplatively as Bofur spoke up again.

“Aye. But when the new Master took over ages ago, it slowly became corrupted. I didn’t realize we were this close to it—and that it had gotten that bad.”

Silence echoed out in the tent, then, and all eyes turned on Bilbo—while he in turn gazed down at his husband with pleading orbs.

“Thorin…Slaves, Thorin. Children and women, too, I bet.”

“Oh, with certainty.” Bofur added, “Many may be descendants of our Erebor, too.”

“…Thorin-“

A sigh came from the king, along with a smile and a shake of his head while he caressed Bilbo’s cheek, “My brave Ghivashel…You are right, in that we should assist them. Free them from our chains and make them free people again. But we cannot attack that town with our numbers, my love. It cannot be a frontal assault.”

“Of course, but we have to do something!” Bilbo stood then, brushing off the sky blue and golden robes Thorin had gifted him with upon their sixth month anniversary; they flowed like spring water and sunbeams, and, whereas in the past the hobbit would probably have thought them gaudy and would have easily tripped and ripped them, they suited his small body to perfection now. Thorin always told him they made him shine like the brightest opals and golden coins, and were easy access for gentle touching and sweet kisses.

“…If I may make a suggestion…” Bifur, who had been characteristically silent the time, spoke up again, “I do have an idea of what we could do. But-“ He hesitated, “I’m afraid our King may not approve.”

He was right—the King did not approve.

There had been shouting then, shouting heard all through camp—poor Bilbo worried if one day he would go deaf at his husband’s boisterous voice—and the King had even hidden Bilbo behind his body physically while the latter groaned a “Thorin, please!” and Bofur came to his cousin’s defense.

“I think it’s a smart idea—No, wait-“ Thorin had opened his mouth to object again, “Listen to me, your Majesty. We know for certain that neither Azog, nor Smaug, are working for the Master of Laketown. Azog would have already slaughtered everyone in that town, because he doesn’t do alliances. And Bilbo will have the dragons with him and we will be near—there’s no need to be so alarmed.”

“But…you know I’m not good at lying…” Bilbo trailed off, “Don’t get me wrong, I support this plan, but they will have to believe that I am sincere about…well. Everything.”

“And it may be best to disguise you a bit nonetheless.” Bofur stated, “We don’t know how far and wide Thranduil’s rumors and declarations reached. But from what I’m gathering, he didn’t know your name, and…well. It may give you more of a pull with them if you look the part of Consort.”

Thorin huffed at that, and muttered about how Bilbo already looks the part, thank you very much, Bofur. But the other just laughs, then,

“Aye, your Majesty, he does! But what I mean is, he must look as if he’s gone through some drastic change. If he has power and pull. As if he wants to destroy us.”

“Couldn’t we choose a better lie?” Bilbo whimpers, “What about just wanting to lie about having the money to buy them?”

The others—even Thorin—shake their heads.

“No.” Bofur sighs, “The Master would not just give up slaves for money—he’s going to want to hear that you are using them for something…sadistic. And trying to create your own army would be perfect. And they are more inclined to trust a hobbit than another dwarf. Saying Thorin betrayed you and gave you up in some fashion would pique his interest. And…well.” Bofur nods towards the outside, “You add in those three, spread a lie or two with them, and there you go. We can complete the mission.”

“…Yes…” A sigh, “Alright. I shall do it—ah!”

He’s startled by Thorin’s sudden grip, then, and sighs into the embrace, “Darling. I’ll be alright, I swear.”

“…You better be.”

“And if we sense any sort of danger, we can easily sneak you out.” Bofur tells them, “There’s no need to put you in excessive peril.”

And so they agree and go to bed that night after making plans for preparations; said preparations are done the following morning, Bilbo hiding away in a tent with the women as they work on his makeover; Thorin readying Shadowfax for the journey with fraying nerves, despite his nephews trying to calm him, as well as the rest of the tribe.

But, his nerves transform into sparking and fizzing fireworks when his husband appears out of the tent—a completely new man.

Gone are the golden-brown curls, and instead snow-white hair decorates his scalp; his braids have been given the same treatment and the hair contrasts with his now-tan skin. What strikes Thorin just as much as the hair change is the eye-color change—they are the lightest of purple shades, gone the hazel color of normal days. But the purple color…it works. It highlights Bilbo’s fuller cheekbones and frame—and it certainly highlights the dark sapphire robes he wears now, cape included that flows against the ground with ease, while being buckled around his shoulders with round, golden clasps.

His husband has never looked so beautiful.

“…O-Oin did a bit of…well…magic with my eyes.” Bilbo comes up to him and whispers shyly, “Just in case, he said. M-Mainly because humans believe someone with exotic coloring is…powerful. Royalty, even. He’ll change them back once I’ve returned…”

“…Beautiful all the same…” Thorin tells him quietly in Westron and the smaller man gracefully blushes then as the King gently touches his hair, “Should keep hair. Love this color on you.”

“O-Oh, I-“

“Love everything about you…both now and other times.”

“…Y-You are so…sweet…” Bilbo doesn’t know what else to say and chooses instead to bury his face in his husband’s bare chest with a sigh, “Thorin, I—OH!”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, for Thorin picked him up into his arms, and carried him quickly back to their tent.

No one was really surprised at the action—their wild King had looked on his husband adoringly then, finding that even drastic changes merely highlighted Bilbo’s beauty; adding to that, the idea of a dangerous mission had stirred Thorin’s blood to act—for who knew when he would be able to make love to his husband again?

And love had been made—Bilbo’s voice rung out in that tent as his husband was beneath him, around him, above him, everywhere around him; thankfully, the dwarf had had the wherewithal to make sure the blue clothes had been spared and had been removed with grace before desiring his husband once more.

And once they were complete, Bilbo took his husband’s face in his hands, kissing every little inch, whispering,

“I have to go…”

“No you don’t.”

A laugh, “I do. They need to be saved…And I can save them.”

“…Would never betray you, you know.”

“Oh, my sweet love, I know. I know that with all my heart,” Bilbo kissed his forehead then, “But there are those that would doubt you…and I will use that doubt to bring about their end.”

“Mm…Keep talking like that. Keep you here.”

And Bilbo laughed then, holding his King close…

And when it came time to leave, he situated himself on Shadowfax with a nod and a kiss, his dragon children hitched up into a large enough crate behind the horse and off they went.

The journey only takes about an hour and fanfare greets Bilbo at the entrance to Laketown; scouts had seen him coming a few miles back, and the Master, hearing of dragons, knew it was wise to prepare and put on a show.

And a show it is—men and dwarrows line the docks as Bilbo’s steed comes down the hill, and all the while, he speaks quietly to himself: ‘chin up, smiles on’, just as Bungo had said to him many, many months ago. ‘Keep your eyes on the prize’, just as his mother always told him when she had been alive. And, last but not least, ‘come home to me’, as Thorin had told him just as he had ridden off.

_Do it for them…Do it for all of them._

“Ahh, great Sir!” And there is the Master, fat and sweating as he hobbles down the main dock just as Bilbo leaps off Shadowfax, “I had heard someone was approaching my fair and lustrous city…what can I do for you?”

Bilbo is smart to not snort at the…compliments the Master bestows upon his land. Because they are blatant lies. Laketown--formerly known as Esgaroth--is rotting from the inside-out; there are holes in the docks, a smell of rank fish everywhere and there is dirt and dust and the first tiny bits of snow covering everywhere. Around the Master gather other pompous lords with gold trimmings and black furs, small in number but great in power, for sure. For there are dozens upon dozens of dwarrows men, women, and children wearing shackles all around them, wearing nothing but rags, their hair shorn and no braids are even seen, despite the fact that many are in families.

The slaves that are Men are no better; Bilbo catches the eyes of three little children clinging to a long-haired man who is branded on his face and hands, and his heart cries out like his dragons do in their cage.

“I am here to inquire about purchasing slaves from you, great Master.” Bilbo’s voice remains strong, despite the murmurs and moans from the crowd, “And I have not come alone, as you see.”

He gestures to the dragons near him, and shrieks and surprise come from the slaves, then; like others in this world, they too have never seen dragons before in their lives, and Bungolon—still the biggest—lifts his head and snarls at many a man then, being dominating and frightening.

“I do see that…” The Master has a wicked grin on his face, “But pray tell, why on Earth should I sell any of my men’s slaves to a stranger, hmm? Though you look rich in wealth, I know not who you are!”

_Seems the clothes and hair worked, then…_ Bilbo thinks to himself with a internal smirk, and he then proclaims strongly,

“For I am on your side, great Master of this watery land. I have been betrayed by Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, and his kin!” Bilbo closes his eyes then, coming off as emotional, when in actuality, he merely means to choose his words very carefully as the men and women around him murmur and gasp and speak in hushed tones.

“Thorin, as you know, is leader of the fallen dwarrows of Erebor, and he took me as his husband. And wherein I believed he would love me forever, he instead has taken another woman to his bed, crushing my heart and the hearts of our children.” He gestures to the dragons near him, who cry out as if on cue, “He no longer sees me as someone worthy of his devotion, and even made to throw me from his kin’s lands atop a cliff when I objected to his behavior!”

“He…almost threw you? Bodily?” The Master gasps, and Bilbo will never doubt his storytelling again, for the man is staring with an open mouth like a dying fish.

“Yes, held me above the cliff by the neck, declaring me nothing but a nuisance and banished me from his life forever. And now, I have nothing…but a desire to see him and all those who failed to stand up to me burn! But I cannot do it alone. My children are too small.”

“Ahh…So you need an army?” The Master’s eyebrows quirked, “I see…that does put an interesting spin on the whole thing, doesn’t it?”

“I was hoping you would feel that way. I have some coin to purchase…But…”

“But you need to know how many I have, yes? Eight thousand slaves, my dear friend.”

Bilbo’s heart stuttered then— _eight thousand?_ That certainly wasn’t two thousand at all.

“…T-Truly?”

“Aye!” The Master smirked and fixed his red fur coat with a pompous air, “Five thousand dwarrows slaves in my little kingdom here, and the rest are human or elven. Come come, though, you probably wish to see everything. But first-“ He clapped his hands, then, and a female elven maiden stepped forward; her hair is red like fire and her skin is pale, and there are shackles on her hands and she certainly looks too, too skinny to be healthy. The Master proceeds to speak words to her—Sindarin, Bilbo’s mind recognizes, for he too knows the language from learning it as a lad—and the hobbit is not happy to hear what is said.

“Take the dwarf whore to the nicest rooms in my palace, wench. His dragons, too.”

And thus, Bilbo is escorted into Laketown with the maiden at his side, she gently pulling Shadowfax and the cart along, the Master far up ahead as if to part the crowd; Bilbo can see the wreckage and ruins more easily now; he can see the slaves and poor hiding in the corners of the homes and city, and he can hear whippings from houses and screams from some and he can only imagine the horrors going on inside.

“…Do not fear.” He whispers to the elf in Sindarin once he is sure the Master will not hear him, and she is startled but gazes at him with bright, green eyes. “I am here to save you and the others.”

“How so?” She whispers back, “You are just one man.”

Bilbo merely smiles and winks and his hand traces Sting hidden away on his hip and knows that, right now, he has gained an ally in the elf, whose name he will learn that night is Tauriel, a woman stolen from her home at an early age, and never rescued by Thranduil or others.

He stays the night, then, in a lavish apartment with his children; they sit on the bed, all of them, for it is hard to slumber when this is not his well-loved tent or blankets or bedmate. But he does stay up to whisper to his children what he plans to do. Though they will not be at much risk, Bungolon will need to be brave, the bravest of them all, while Tookdagar and Bellavius will need to be brave for him.

“Can you do that, my dearest?” He caresses the dragon’s scaly head while it purrs and smoke floats up from its nose, and the creature nods happily.

“Good. Because we shall be victorious soon.”

The next morning is welcomed with a feast aplenty, and it truly seems that the Master is doing his best to butter up to the hobbit; fruits and vegetables are laid out on gilded silver plates with meats and cheeses, and Bilbo can’t stand to eat any of it, not when he looks into Tauriel’s eyes and the eyes of the children and sees so much pain.

Which explains why he only takes an apple and a peach for himself, and offers an entire plateful to his elf friend, and has her promise to sneak the rest to the children that work for the Master as well.

“Bard’s children will be very happy, Master Hobbit,” She tells him, “for he has been given little by the Master…they sometimes do not eat for a day or two at a time. Or, sometimes even worse, they must scourge for scraps in the garbage or by the waterways.”

“That will end after today.” Bilbo huffs to the girl in her native tongue.

“You speak Sindarin…How so?”

“Oh? Oh, well, I learned as a boy for my mum. She was quite a worldly traveler back in the day, and learned many languages. But yes, he can insult me all he wants, and I will know.”

“He is a wretched creature…But tell me, what will you do with us once whatever you are planning is done?”

“I will do nothing, that’s what.” Bilbo tells her, “You will be free, then. Free to do whatever you wish. You can come with my kin, or you can go home, or do whatever you want. You will have your agency again, and that is all that matters.”

She nods, then, and Bilbo can see it in her eyes—she has no home to go to, and more than likely, she will come with him.

At noon, the Master comes for him, and they journey through Laketown; he brags about how strong his slaves are as Bilbo watches them carry and push boats and carts through the streets, despite bleeding feet and callused hands. He brags about how they are obedient and have no free will, as he watches, in anguish, as a mother dwarf is forced to drop her newborn babe from a roof lest she and the rest of the family, her other three children, be killed—and of course, the child does not survive the fall.

“They will do whatever you wish!” He crows, “They are utterly broken.”

Bilbo, despite wanting to kill the man with Sting, remains calm—he cannot break his façade now, not if any of these people are to have any hope.

The Master even has the disgust to offer Tauriel as a bedmate for ‘services’ and Bilbo wants to vomit.

“I thank you for the offer, great Master, but I will never love or desire another now that my heart has been broken. Only my children matter.”

The Master just sighs and finds him a fool, but behind his back, Bilbo takes the girl’s hand and nods; there are dark stories behind her eyes, and Bilbo will never ask, nor will she ever have to tell him.

Once the tour is complete, the Master brings Bilbo to his throne area, with the lords gathered around him.

“Now that you have seen them all and what they are capable of, how many do you want?”

And Bilbo doesn’t hesitate to say the words he’s been waiting to say all day:

“Eight thousand.”

Snickers and chortles echo out then and Alfrid, the second-in-command, nearly falls out of his seat.

“Are you mad?” The rat man asks, “That is our entire economy you are talking about buying!”

“I know that. And that is my offer: I will take all eight thousand.”

“And how will you pay for them all?” The Master sneers, “You are rich, but not _that_ rich, surely.”

“I’m willing to make a trade.”

Muttering and Sindarin speech comes out then; the Master calls Bilbo an arrogant, whorish fool and talks of how he should just scam him now. How he should just take him as a slave, for what is to stop him? But then others talk of how the dragons, those dragons, Sir—make one wrong move, and they will fry them alive.

Bilbo smiles to himself, because they do not know how right those men are.

“What are you willing to trade?” The Master eventually humors him and Bilbo then bows and summons Tauriel—who brings in Bungolon in the crate he arrived in; the other two are, as Bilbo planned, in his room, locked away safely.

“My eldest son. He is worth more than eight—no, ten thousand slaves. And he will be yours forever if you give me your property.”

That silences the room, and many believe it is a trick.

“No trick.” Bilbo says with a smile, “This child is still loyal to Thorin, and I do not want him near me. He would be better in your…magnificent care.”

And on cue, Bungolon hisses and even makes to snarl at Bilbo; and whereas others see it as real, Bilbo merely looks into his son’s eyes and sees the playful mirth.

_This is a fun game, Mother…I enjoy this game…_

That is what his eyes say and it warms Bilbo’s heart.

“…Let me think on it, then.” The Master bellows out, but Bilbo knows he’s sealed the deal. He knows the fool has taken the bait too, too easily.

Even more so when he hears the Master in Sindarin bellow out that Bilbo is a foolish harlot and does not know what he is doing.

But oh…Bilbo Baggins knows exactly what he is doing.

That night, as he escorts his son back to their apartment, he has them blow puffs of fire into the never-used chimney—smoke comes out in little bursts, sprinkled with green color; the herbs that Tauriel had been asked to collect burning and it is a subtle signal for the dwarrows hidden in the forest.

“He’s alright.” Bofur nudges the King who has barely moved from his post for the past two days. “And it looks like the plan’s a go.”

And that next morning, Bilbo stands on the shores of Laketown, with every single slave lining the docks; their ankles are shackled, but Bilbo demanded that their hands be freed.

“I will be making them carry things as I traverse back towards Thorin and his wretched group; they need to be free to move at least one or two things each, possibly weapons.” Bilbo had told the foolish Alfrid, and he had listened eagerly—even more so when Bilbo had purposefully jangled the coin purse Thorin had given him and plopped it into his greedy hands.

And now, the Master came forth with laughter, handing Bilbo a golden whip.

“A sign of your dominance over all of them, my dear friend.” He grinned a yellow smile and Bilbo just returned it with his own while handling over Bungolon, who in turn was on a rusty chain and collar.

“Thank you, good Master. I believe that…completes our deal.”

“Indeed! Now, you vicious dragon, come!” The Master yelled at Bungolon.

And then…well.

Then it was clear something was off.

For Bungolon merely screamed—the final sign for the dwarrows to move in from the shadows—and did not move when the Master tried to command him.

“What in the…? What’s wrong with this thing?” He pulled and pulled, but Bungolon merely shouted again and again, flapping his wings in the air, but refusing to move forward, “Why won’t it listen to me!?”

“Because, dear Master…” Bilbo turned towards him once more, having casually brushed Shadowfax with a shaking hand—because this was it, it would either succeed or fail—“Bungolon is not a slave. ”

And then, he spoke in Sindarin and yells of surprise went through the crowd then,

“And neither am I a whore of dwarrow kind. I am Bilbo Baggins, formerly of the Shire, currently of the dwarrows of Erebor! And you are now playing _my_ game with lives, Master of Laketown.”

“WHAT?!”

“BUNGOLON!” Bilbo screamed, “YOL TOOR SHUL!”

And flames erupt from the creature’s mouth, and the Master proceeds to burn alive in agony, falling to the ground just as Tauriel, in all her loving loyalty, kicks open the crate of the other two dragons, freeing them in turn so they too may wreak havoc upon the unknowing.

And amidst the shouting from the lords, Bilbo shouts above the din just as his kin erupt from the hills behind the city,

“MY KIN, MY PEOPLE, MY FRIENDS! YOU ARE SLAVES NO MORE!” The fire erupts behind him, in front of him, as lord after lord is struck down by his children, and as he grabs Bungolon to wrap the chain that binds him around his own wrist, a sign of power, a sign of triumph, “DESTROY ALL THOSE THAT HAVE HARMED YOU. KILL THE GUILTY IF YOU SO WISH IT! BUT SPARE THE INNOCENT. SPARE THE CHILDREN OF THE LORDS THAT HAVE HARMED YOU, SO THEY ARE GIVEN A CHANCE TO LEARN FROM THE MISTAKES OF THEIR PARENTS! BUT BE FREE! AND COME WITH US IF YOU DESIRE IT!”

And then, oh, then it is utterly perfect chaos—the slaves understand immediately, and rampage through the streets they do, joined hand in hand with Thorin’s kin, as they in turn break off the shackles around children’s ankles and help the women and weakened men stand to breathe again for another day.

And Bilbo is joined by his husband not a moment after his speech has ended, and he helps Bilbo up onto his horse as the carnage erupts in the streets; lords are being pushed out of houses, thrown to their deaths; some are killed more gruesomely with blood flowing and spraying, because the ticking-time-bomb that was Laketown has erupted and it is in thanks to Bilbo Baggins’s leadership and bravery. There is soon blood on the street as he and Thorin wait for it to end—Thorin would dare not drag his husband into the wreckage—and Bilbo can only stare as Laketown begins to burn under dragon fire, for Bellavius and Tookdagar are circling the outer regions and are sending the city to the Balrogs of the afterlife.

It takes maybe twenty, thirty minutes, until the city is silenced—and then they come.

Thousands upon thousands of men, women, and children of varying races stand on the edges of Laketown, staring at Bilbo Baggins in awe—and then they bow and Bilbo’s bravado is gone, for he squeaks and stutters,

“W-Wait, I-“

“We bow to you not as a master, or a King, but as a leader.” That is Bard, as he steps forth, “For you have led us to victory, Child of the West. You and your kin. You have led us to freedom.”

“And you may go wherever you wish, now…" Bilbo returns the sentiment, "You are free…”

“Many of us wish to stay here, actually.” Bard replies, smiling, “Now that the old leaders are dead, it is the slaves and poor who will take back this city. We will rebuild it for the better. But…there are many who do wish to go with you.”

Five-thousand dwarrows then proceed to come forth, and Bilbo’s eyes widen as Thorin’s mouth drops open; they are of various homes and styles, with even some from the Iron Hills, but they come to stand in front of Bilbo with sturdy faces and ready eyes. Many of the men place a fist above their hearts and shout in Khuzdul a cry of loyalty for their new Kings and Thorin looks close to fainting, for his kin, his tribe, has doubled in a matter of moments.

And they are not alone—for Tauriel comes forward with two lithe elves, proclaiming,

“And I would follow you as well, along with my kin. For we have been abandoned by our own homeland. And I would follow my new ‘Mhysa’ anywhere.”

Bilbo is pulled up short by the word, but in his heart, he knows its origins—dragon-tongue.

“You speak dragon-tongue?”

“No, my great Mhysa. But I learned a few words from stories long ago, and they have always stayed by me. That word, it means-“

“Mother…Yes…Yes, I know.” He smiles, then, “Come, child. You are welcome with us, after all the help you have given me.”

And they march—Bilbo on Shadowfax, letting all three of his children go to fly above his and Thorin’s heads as they lead their people out of the wreckage, waving goodbye to Bard and the remaining humans that vow to rebuild Laketown from the ground up once more.

There is one last task Bilbo has, though, he realizes, as he stares at his hands—the golden whip still remains forgotten in his grasp, and with a smile, he tosses it aside without a care, the object falling into the deep waters of Laketown’s waters, where it will never be found for the rest of eternity.

And then he swears, upon the promise of his people and his life and the lives of his husband and children, that the world will need to prepare for the freeing of slaves everywhere if need be—Bilbo will no longer stand for it, and in the near future, they will target small settlements that are run by orc brigades and monstrous creatures.

That evening, though, they retreat to their normal home, and Bilbo’s eyes are back to their normal hazel as he settles against his husband for another passionate night, while Thorin whispers that he is so glad to have his husband back home, in his arms.

“Never leave again.” Thorin pants into his neck while Bilbo moans, white hair splayed out on pillows,

“Never…But we’ll save them all…”

“And we’ll give…ah…give them home…”

And they kiss under the stars as their new family members make a home out of what they can; they will gain new materials in time, new and more tents, more food, and it will be grand.

Bilbo can see it now, in his eyes, while he promises to keep the white hair as a sign of strength—and because his King desires it so much—while he promises to keep his children safe and sound as he kisses them good night after wrapping up in the blankets his husband offers him.

“Sleep well, darlings…” He whispers to them all, and it is a good night for them.

But not for everyone.

For out in the camp, in the dead of night, Bofur makes his way through the trees, stepping over sleeping bodies until he gets out into the depth of the forest.

And he is grabbed by giant, white hands and claws, and he nearly screams.

Until Azog speaks.

“Well, well, there’s our little birdie…”

“Just…Just let me go, okay, I’ll report, I’ll tell you what I know.”

“Easy, Bolg, easy…got to let the little songbird tell us what he knows.”

The hold on him is loosened and he means to speak and ask about how his sister is, if she’s okay, if-

“Now.” Azog wastes no time, though, and grabs his chin, his floppy hat nearly falling off at the tug, “You’re going to tell me everything you’ve learned about the Dragon Mother and his husband since last time I saw you, got it? And it better be good information…Or Elia may not live to see tomorrow.”


End file.
